silences straddling the night

In the songs of the distant past, there is a bass note, a dim wily timbral torticollis, a smeared bleary beacon, a bottle of aged acid, a set of loose leaf preparatory jottings and instructions dissolved in ink, water, and oil, a disambiguous arrangement of flowers, a scattering of leaves, a pop instruction from an old laser printer shuffling along the concrete in the waning summer sun, filtered through the grid of a screen door, an tortuous vapor column, sinuously twisting and folding in the humid air, a wax bust of Martin Van Buren, an uncountably infinite set of points stuffed into a marbled envelope and stuck in your old Shakespeare concordance, and so forth, merging like gnarled seven dimensional puzzle pieces magically merging into an image of a sunset, or a bar of milk chocolate being unwrapped by an eager and hungry child. This florid euhypnium lies in the temple ruins, beneath the teeth of a dentally unhygeinic seventy five year old library attendant, in the julia-set adorned stocking frills of my lover, in the cosmic hum, in the serif forest of the franklin mint edition of joyce's ulysses, in the foul diminutives I hear others' relationships adorned with, it is always to be found in the third line of the character table for the Monster.

For the first and third time: I have a bottle of frozen light in my satchel. It's supercritical. I haven't shaken it. I could throw it against the wall and universes would bloom. Whole cultures and singularities would erupt: my interviewer asks me: "why so concerned with elsewhence and otherwhens? Isn't dealing with now more important?"

To which I reply: "But I can't deal with the moment here. I don't have the cards in my deck that let me deal with being here in the moment in more than a perfunctory way: I have things to do, and more to the point, I've seen some verbs man, some verbs! I have to do my best, my absolute and unquenchingly best to import those verbs here, because I am convinced that they could really do some astonishing things here, as best as the local indranet will let me import them. These are the types of homotopies which would make ninety five percent of people's conceptions of angels pop their eyes out of their heads. These are practically nonmisuseable verbs. You can't even distinguish them from the pleated sheats of verbs on the transformation ocean. And this world is filled with people worshipping nouns, writing odes to nouns, cutting out parts of their brains to sacrifice on pyres to nouns, and so on. The assorted effluvia makes me sick."